Being Persuant To The Human Condition
by LimpBiskit
Summary: First attempt at actual fic in this fandom. Will continue if there's interest.


Title: Being Pursuant To The Human Condition  
Author: LimpBiskit  
Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
Pairing: John/Sherlock  
Rating: NC17  
Warnings: Slash, Language, Mention of Drugs, Violence.

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Sometimes John wondered if it were really he that was insane.

Sucking in a breath, he ignored the budding stitch in his side, shaking his head at the figure currently disappearing around the corner of yet another derelict building. Groaning to himself, he fought down the urge to laugh, stepping up his pace. Rounding the corner, he failed to contain a second burst of hilarity as he spotted the dramatic flair of coattails at the far end of the alley, the other obviously slowing his mad dash for the benefit of his erstwhile companion.

He could almost _see_ the tiny upward curl of the brunette's lip, the faint stippling of scars along the lower right one becoming apparent for only the barest instant as the flesh shifted with the motion. Likewise the slight narrowing of his eyes, visible only to someone who honestly cared to look for any hint of expression on that aquiline face.

And God help him, he looked.

Therein lay his madness, the very root entwined so deeply as to be irremovable. No matter how many veiled barbs or innuendos passed those lips, or how little emotion registered in those calculating eyes, he searched for something _more_, anything that hinted at the real depth of the man that he followed into Hell and back on a frighteningly regular basis.

And sometimes, he would find it.

The briefest narrowing of the eyes, a momentary alteration in the pitch or pattern of his speech, it was all noted with ever-increasing hunger. Each flicker of humanity that rose to the surface was his spy, whispering soft hope of an eventual solution.

As he overtook the other, he thought that perhaps they were both quite mad, haring through alleyways and over transoms, chasing doggedly after some as-yet unknown criminal who almost certainly bore arms that he wouldn't hesitate to turn on either of them in his efforts to escape. The blond's time in the war had taught him to look first, second and possibly third before leaping, a lesson learned through pain and fear and sometimes the occasional death, but in this place-

Here was a completely different warzone, the only goal something so removed from what he had known as to be indescribable. Where his mind worked in the moments of linear progress, the younger man moved through past, present and future, delving even into the not-quite and could-also-be with the same ease that he displayed with any number of seemingly impossible tasks.

It still astonished him, the way things inevitably turned in the detective's favor. If they were to lose sight of the man ahead of them, there would be some small bit of evidence to show his intent, a shoeprint angled just so to indicate a twisted ankle that would need immediate treatment, or perhaps a smattering of exotic bird feathers, leading them to some out-of-the-way petshop.. And the brunette would see it, understand it as if the objects had spoken to him in some obscure dialect known only to the terrifyingly brilliant.

Sure enough, the man skidded to a halt, flinging out an arm imperiously. Gesturing to the clear path taken by their quarry, he smiled that humorless smile, nodding to himself even as he addressed the winded doctor with quiet surety.

"Just there, he's overestimated himself.. Took a nasty tumble through the bins. The blood here-" He pointed to a smallish puddle nearby, "And all along that wall, to the grate by the street, would you say that's enough to expect a rather large cut?" He barely acknowledged the older man's hum of agreement, already typing furiously at his phone's keypad. "Probably a fair bit of glass left in, and colored as well.. Those are Chablis Du Vier bottles, easily identified by the rose-red pigment used while firing-"

He continued without regard for breath, sending the first missive and immediately beginning another, presumably to Lestrade and whatever officer was closest to the second-closest hospital. "-and when we turned down Mornstern, he _knew_ the alley, expected us to lose him once we reached those last two crossings.. But he panicked, left his bootprint on the door he tried. Gave away the entire meaning of this route.. He'll go as far as he can before seeking medical attention. Budge up the lid of that last bin, would you?"

Shaking off his bemusement, John nodded, grimacing at the copious sludge that covered said lid. "Anything in particular you expect me to.. Oh. Well, here's his trophy, then." Shuddering at the tangle of flesh that had most recently been affixed to a man's head, he sighed. "Unless someone else found themself better off without a scalp, he's our man. Has Lestrade replied?"

He didn't really expect an answer, but wasn't surprised when one was given.

"Hm. He's alerting the area doctors, and says good work." He laughed darkly at the last, snapping his phone closed and tucking it back into his pocket. Rounding on the other quickly, he tipped his head at the opening to the street. "Told him _that_ was there as well, hopefully he'll send someone 'round for it before the local vermin take it for nesting material.. But we're done, would you like to stop off at that little bistro we passed? We _did_ have to leave the flat before your delivery came."

John scowled at the mention of food, pointedly looking away from the garbage bins. "No, that's not happening tonight.. And before you say anything, _yes_ we normal folk need to eat, but not after ferreting out dismembered bodyparts. I'm having a shower before anything else, garbage is garbage no matter how much the makings of it cost."

The brunette's soft huff of amusement earned him a withering stare, the effect lessened by the older man's own faint smile. Exiting the alley, he walked deliberately close to the detective, snorting at his revolted sniff. "Serves you right. Next time we go clomping around in the dark, it's _your_ turn to header into the skip."

Sherlock laughed outright, avoiding an elbow with practiced ease. "Really, John.. How could I have possibly known that only half of the top was closed? And why in the world did you think it was a good idea to go arse over teakettle off of the roof in the first place?"

The elbow connected this time, leaving a mark on the younger man's overcoat. "You just stopped and it was either knock you over the side or jump! Believe me, I didn't survive Afghanistan just so that I could break my neck and drown in.. Whatever was in there." He held up a silencing hand when the other man opened his mouth to reply. "_Don't_ tell me what it was. I don't need to know." Smirking at the detective's indignant examination of the stain on his coat, he shook his head. "Looks like we'll be walking, no cabbie would have us."

Sherlock grimaced at the statement, nodding. "Indeed. At least it isn't so far, less than a quarter mile." Brushing ineffectually at himself, he sighed. "I wonder how long we'll have to wait before something _interesting_ comes 'round.. This one was barely worth leaving the couch for."

The blond only rolled his eyes in response, keeping step with his companion as they set out in earnest. Neither one was fooled by his silence, when they both knew that he was wondering as well.

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The remainder of their walk passed quickly, both men sighing in relief when the familiar doorway came into view.

Digging out his keys, Sherlock opened the door, allowing his flatmate a wide berth as they entered the silent house. "Good thing Mrs. Hudson isn't about, the stench would probably upset her a bit." He gestured at the staircase, visibly rankled by the pervasive odor in such close quarters. "Ugh.. Well, have at it. Hopefully it's restricted to your clothes."

John hummed absently, leading the way to their own door. Pushing it open, he avoided brushing against the walls as he entered. "I'm washing up, then. Why don't you watch some telly or read, enjoy the lack of explosions for once? I'll put some tea on when I'm done."

As usual, the detective pulled a face at the mere mention of peace and quiet, flinging himself blindly in the direction of the low couch with a shuddering moan. "God, I'm to die of boredom, withered away to a husk of what I might have been, deprived of the means to occupy myself with something of actual challenge.."

He shook his head at the younger man's theatric display, mounting the steps with a wince as the stitch in his side made itself known. Ascending quickly, he relaxed at the familiar sight of his closed door, pushing it open with a grateful sigh.

Sniffing at himself critically, he groaned at the effervescent reminder of the night's activities, shaking his head in mixed relief and disgust when he saw that the filth seemed to be restricted to the front of his jacket. Working the zip carefully, he pulled off the offending garment, holding it at arm's length as he stepped further into the room.

Dropping his ruined coat beside the hamper, he barely remembered to take his phone from the inner pocket, rolling his eyes at the bright flash that indicated missed messages. Pecking at the touchscreen, he frowned at the sheer number, all from one damnably familiar source.

** 08:15 PM - H. Watson  
08:45 PM - H. Watson  
09:03 PM - H. Watson  
09:22 PM - H. Watson  
09:50 PM - H. Watson  
10:01 PM - H. Watson  
10:15 PM - H. Watson  
10:28 PM - H. Watson  
10:53 PM - H. Watson  
11:07 PM - H. Watson **

Gritting his teeth, he erased all but the final message, opening it with an ill-tempered jab of his finger.

**Would little Johnny care to play? Not too late to join in, unless we've run out of hands.**

Blinking dumbly at the screen, he wondered how drunk she must be by now, all those calls.. Heaving a sigh, he keyed in the number for her landline telephone, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as it rang for what seemed like an hour before the click of a connection registered. Steeling himself for the usual tirade, he spoke. "Look, Harry, I'm not telling you this as a doctor, but as your brother. If you can't keep off the lush for one damned weekend, you're never going to-"

There was a violent crackle of static, loud enough to pull the receiver away from his ear with a low curse, and then an unfamiliar voice on the line.

_"Well, well.. If it idn't the unsung hero hisself.. Bit late about it, but we've still a lil' play if you're interested."_

He inhaled sharply at the thick brogue, noticing for the first time that there was some low sound behind the speaker's voice. "Who is this? Put Harry on, I'd like to get on with the evening-"

_"Ah, can't do that at present.. She'd have a time holding the phone, what with the last hand played and all."_ There was a faint keening then, muffled but clear enough for the man to discern that it was indeed his sister's voice. Before he could gather his thoughts to demand an explanation, the other laughed crudely.

_"Whassat rhyme you say, when ya make a choice.. Oh, right.. Eenie, meenie, miney mo, catch a tiger by 'is toe-"_ The keening abruptly shifted to a sobbing wail, almost covering the speaker's soft chant. _"If 'e hollers, lettim go.. Can't though, you know? After all the trouble, I think I fancy keeping what I've caught."_ There was a concussive hammering sound, and suddenly the connection filled with the unmistakable scream of a woman in mortal agony, the frenzied shrieks blending into one another seamlessly until a second report left the line almost buzzing with silence. _"Messy, that.. But you hurry on along, there's only the one foot to go."_ The quiet click and hum of the open line seemed deafening, the phone dropping from his fingers as he bolted through the door and down the stairs to the sitting room.

Ignoring the brunette's startled exclamation, he gripped him by the lapels of his still-fastened coat, yanking him up from the couch by main strength. "Harry, we've got to go, someone's got her-"

Sherlock jerked ineffectually at his hands, leaning backward at the murderous glint in his normally calm eyes. "Get off! We can go if you insist, there's no need for.." He broke off with a low grunt of effort, dislodging the other with a final shake. "What's happened? Her home, else you'd have no idea where-"

John resumed his hold, shaking his head. "Deduct your arse out the door! There's no time for your games, will you come or not?" He released the man abruptly, whirling round to pull open the drawer of the desk. Riffling through it, he snatched his gun from the assorted papers and sundry, snapping the chamber open with precise movements. "I swear to God, if you've wasted the rounds I'll throw you downstairs on your overinflated _head_-" He nodded curtly at the full load, snorting at the brunette's indignant growl. "Right. Come on."

Trusting for once that the other would do the proper thing, he strode unerringly to the flat's door, flinging it open and descending the stairs without a backward glance. The silence behind him was unspeakably painful despite his preoccupation, and he clenched his jaw at a sudden flare of blinding rage. "Son of a-"

"Let's see to your sister before we besmirch my mother, yes?"

He whipped his head around so quickly that his neck popped audibly, relief cooling his fury with the same rapidity that it had arisen. Watching the man descend the stairs, he nodded in acknowledgement, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "Sorry. Thought you might not feel up to common crime." He immediately regretted the statement, seeing the younger man's eyes widen something almost like pain. Before he could form an apology, the cool mask slipped firmly into place, the brunette's face revealing nothing.

"Let's call it obligation, then. Here, take this-" He shoved a smallish box into the blond's hand, pulling his phone out and sliding it open for a text. "I'll alert the authorities while you hail a cab." Glancing up at the other's quick inhale, he frowned. "Well? Move, it won't fare itself."

John nodded shortly, tucking the package of bullets into the pocket of his trousers. "All right." He yanked open the street-door, stepping outside and scanning the near-empty road in sight of a familiar roof light. Absently noting the soft click of the door being shut behind them, he waved briskly at an approaching vehicle, barking the address to the startled driver before snatching the doorhandle in one hand and the brunette's coatsleeve in the other. Ushering him into the seats, he slammed the door, noticing his bare arms for the first time. "Ah, Hell."

The detective sighed quietly, shifting himself out of his coat. "Here. You'll be no use at all if you're frozen before we get there." He dropped the material into the blond's lap, turning to stare at the passing scenery without another word.

John muttered his thanks, wincing at the aloof silence that replied. Forcing away his guilty discomfort, he settled for counting the ticks of the meter, draping the coat over his shoulders.

Despite the warmth of the cloth, he was still aware of the definite chill that accompanied them, on their way to whatever horror the world had in store for him.

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Well, this is the beginning of the "real fic" people wanted, I wonder if the change in style will lose me the few readers I had.. Never tried an actual _case_.. Anyway, comments are love, and I feel decidedly melancholy at present. See you again soon, unless no one is interested in more. 


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